Bran let out a raw, frustrated cry as the communication orb dimmed and flickered uselessly once again, the magic within it refusing to connect no matter how many times he tried; it took every shred of restraint he possessed not to hurl it at the ground and shatter the delicate thing against the rain-slicked pavement beneath his boots.
All around him, the Crown City breathed with a kind of dreamlike detachment—the scent of wet cobblestones and the ghostly haze of spent crystal dust hung heavy in the air, weaving between the narrow alleys and glistening rooftops— and its people, for all their bustling energy and nightly routine, remained either blissfully ignorant or willfully blind to the horrors that had begun to consume Caerleon.
In truth, Bran could not bring himself to despise them for it.
The memory of Norsefire's terror still lingered in the bones of the old, those who had lived through the chaos and devastation the jackbooted thugs of the Clock Tower had once unleashed, and perhaps in some ways, forgetting was a mercy. He had long lost count of how many times he had attempted to reach Rowena, how often he had sat clutching the orb, whispering her name with growing desperation, only to be met by silence, by empty static, by doubt gnawing at the edges of his heart.
Whether it was the blackout crippling the all communication or whether she was deliberately rejecting him, Bran no longer knew, and the uncertainty weighed on him far heavier than either answer alone could have. Despite their current friction Bran worried for her in a way that made him feel stripped bare, and that worry twisted tighter with every unanswered call, every moment of silence.
No one inside the Tower would speak to him, not even in hushed whispers, and Bran knew with a cold certainty that it was not out of fear of him, but because the orders to keep him in the dark came from higher, far above the reach of common sense or conscience—likely from the Director himself, ensuring that no inconvenient truths slipped free.
Bran leaned back against the cold, fogged glass of the bakery window, feeling the chill seep into the fabric of his coat, his lime-green eyes lifting to the sky above where the stars fought to pierce through the oily smog, where the distant silhouettes of slow-moving airships drifted silently across the firmament like great sleeping leviathans.
Everything that had happened—the revelations, the run-in with Asriel, the ugly truths peeled back one by one—made a mockery of the ideals he had once sworn by.
His principles, his values, the carefully crafted identity he had wrapped himself in like a badge of honor, now felt paper-thin, a brittle mask he had worn for so long he had begun to believe it was his true face.
The man he had thought himself to be—a servant of justice, a protector of the innocent—now seemed little more than a convenient lie, a comforting delusion crafted to excuse the fact that he had always been a pawn, a sharpened instrument wielded by the corrupt, blind to the blood he helped spill.
He slipped off his glasses with a weary hand, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to suppress the rising nausea in his gut, but the feeling of failure, of complicity, clung to him like a second skin.
The soft jingle of a bell above the shop door broke the heavy weight of his thoughts.
Bran glanced sideways to see Laxus emerging from the store, the warm, yeasty scent of baked bread and brewed coffee trailing after him into the damp night air.
"I don't know about you, but I'm starving," Laxus said with his usual easy grin, tossing something wrapped in wax paper toward Bran, who caught it out of reflex.
"Plain—just the way you like it. Damned sicko," he added with a teasing jab.
Bran managed a dry chuckle, sliding his glasses back onto his nose as he examined the bundle.
"Forgive me for not wanting to drown my jacket in condiments," he said as he began unwrapping it. "Unlike you, I don't have endless pockets to replace my wardrobe every time you decide to eat like a feral animal."
"Please," Laxus said, leaning back against the same window and tearing into his own food with reckless enthusiasm, "you've always been opposed to flavor itself. By the Gods, I missed this. They had a place just like this in Caerleon, you know, same smell, same barely-legal meat. Their paninis were to die for."
"Only you," Bran said with a small shake of his head as he bit into his own sandwich, "could mistake a simple roadside bakery sandwich for fine dining."
"You know me, I've always had a soft spot for the simpler things in life," Laxus said, his gaze drifting away down the dark street where puddles caught the lamplight like broken mirrors. "Growing up surrounded by nobles and stuck-up bastards who thought they could measure a man's worth by the polish of his boots—you learn quick. You either become part of the rot... or you fight it. Wasn't much of a choice, really."
Bran finished chewing, lowered the half-eaten sandwich to his side, and shrugged with a tired, helpless motion.
"I'm not even sure which one I am anymore," he said quietly. "I used to believe I stood for something—that I was one of the good ones, one of the decent few holding the line. But now..."
He shook his head, the words trailing off into the cold night.
"Now I'm starting to think I've been part of the problem all along. From the very first day I pinned this damned badge to my chest."
Laxus turned his head slowly to look at him, a faint grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth, his food momentarily forgotten.
"Bran," he said, "you had no way of knowing Lamar Burgess was a crook. Neither did I. Sure, I always thought he was a slimy little snake, but knowing he was the Devil dressed in velvet? That's a hell of a thing to see only when the fire's already at your feet."
"But I could have seen the signs," Bran said quietly. "I could have questioned more, challenged the orders that didn't sit right... scrutinized the directives instead of swallowing them whole."
He gave a small, defeated shrug, his gaze dropping to the food in his hand. "I don't know. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything. But knowing what I know now—it makes what I did to Raine feel all the more monstrous. I see why Rowena wouldn't forgive me. And honestly, I don't blame her."
He gave a hollow laugh, bitter and short.
"I wouldn't forgive me either."
Laxus sighed heavily, taking another bite from his sandwich before swiping the sauce from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Speaking of which," he said after a moment, "did you ever manage to get a hold of her?"
Bran shook his head, a grim set to his jaw. "Caerleon's under a full communication blackout. The only one with a direct line out of the city is the Director himself."
He drew a sharp breath, the tension in his chest refusing to ease. "I know Rowena's strong. I know she can take care of herself—and I know Headmaster Blaise and the Professors would never just stand by if something happened to the students—but still... I can't help worrying."
"We need to put a stop to this," Laxus said, his blue eyes narrowing with a rare intensity. "We're meeting the Regent in a few days, and maybe, just maybe—we can convince him to put an end to Burgess' little power trip."
He let out a slow breath, his shoulders stiff. "The old coot might act like he's king of the whole damned world, but even he answers to the Council."
"Like it or not, Lamar's held in high regard by the Council," Bran said. "Out of the seven who sit at the table, three of them aren't just allies—they're close friends. I've met them myself, at one of Lamar's charming little gatherings. These aren't strangers who can be swayed by evidence and outrage. They're loyal. Blindly so. And that concerns me more than anything."
Laxus tilted his head slightly, frowning. "Concerned about what, exactly?"
Bran turned his head, his gaze cutting through the darkness of the street like a knife.
"Even if we had the evidence, the smoking wand, so to speak—do you really think Lamar Burgess would ever see the inside of a prison cell?" He let the question hang in the air for a moment, heavy and bitter. "Or an executioner's blade?"
Laxus gave a short, disbelieving scoff. "So you're saying they'd give the bastard a mulligan? A slap on the wrist and a hearty pat on the back?"
"From where I'm standing," Bran said grimly, taking another mechanical bite of his sandwich, "I wouldn't be entirely surprised."
Laxus popped the last bite of his food into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again.
"Call me the optimist here—but it'd be damned hard to sweep all this under the rug. Hard to grant leniency to a man who's orchestrated the deaths of thousands. The Councilmen who'd side with Burgess might not keep their chairs for long and even the most loyal of friends won't risk their necks defending the indefensible."
"I most certainly hope you're right, Laxus," Bran said, finishing the last bite of his sandwich before crumpling the wax paper into a tight ball and tossing it neatly into the bin beside him. "More than anything, I hope Macon Duchannes is everything the twins make him out to be—and not just another puppet dancing to Lamar's tune."
Before Laxus could reply, a sharp voice cut through the damp night air.
"Mister Ravenclaw. Mister Dryfus."
Both men turned instinctively toward the source. A man approached, his polished shoes tapping lightly against the wet stone. He wore a tailored brown overcoat thrown over a dark suit, the silver badge of an Adjudicator pinned neatly to his chest, glinting in the streetlights. His black hair, slicked back and still glistening from the earlier rain, only served to sharpen the severe angles of his rough-shaven, hard-set jaw. His dull green eyes—cold, unreadable—settled heavily on them both.
"Witwer," Bran said, straightening from his lean against the window, one eyebrow arching in mild surprise. "A bit late for a stroll, isn't it? Or maybe you're just out hunting for a decent cup of coffee?"
"I was actually looking for you," Witwer said coolly, his gaze flickering to Laxus with mild distaste before returning to Bran. "You and your... associate. We have a few questions for you both, if you don't mind."
Laxus narrowed his eyes slightly, catching the subtle shift in the street behind Witwer—six other men, all in dark suits, emerging from the shadows like pieces sliding into place on a board.
Each of them bore the stiff, predatory posture of trained enforcers. Bran and Laxus exchanged a glance —the sort of look shared between men who had long since learned to recognize when the walls were closing in.
Bran turned back to Witwer, smoothing his coat. "Of course," Bran said evenly. "Let's take this somewhere a little more... private, shall we?"
Witwer gave a single, curt nod.
Without another word, Laxus pushed himself off the glass wall with a casual roll of his shoulders, his movements loose, relaxed—but Bran could see the tension tightening in the lines of his frame, the way his hand flexed just once at his side, ready for anything.
And together, they followed Witwer into the deepening gloom.
****
Bran and Laxus found themselves herded into the narrow confines of an alleyway, the damp red brick walls pressing in on either side and the rain-slicked asphalt gleaming faintly beneath the streetlights. At the far end loomed the towering back wall of another building, cutting off any chance of retreat. There was an unmistakable air of calculation about the place—the windows were bolted tight, the curtains drawn, and the dim light barely reached the pools of shadow between the buildings. It was the kind of place where unpleasant things happened out of sight, and those who lived nearby had long since learned to look the other way.
Bran's sharp gaze shifted briefly towards the alley's entrance where three men stood, shoulder to shoulder, their dark suits blending into the gloom, while another three lingered behind Witwer, completing the cage. He took it all in with a calm detachment, noting every detail.
"Alright then," Bran said coolly, adjusting his glasses with a casual flick of his fingers. "Perhaps you might enlighten us as to what this little performance is about?"
"As I said," Witwer replied, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, "we merely have a few questions we'd like to ask."
"Yeah, that's real believable," Laxus said, the smirk tugging at his mouth laced with open sarcasm. "Let me guess—this about us sniffing around your boss's dirty laundry a little too much for comfort?"
Witwer's eyebrow twitched—a small betrayal, but enough.
"Or maybe it's that we've gotten too close to something you boys didn't want found," Laxus added, almost amused, but his posture anything but relaxed. "And don't insult our intelligence by pretending this is some friendly little chat. If you wanted to ask questions, we'd be in a station, not boxed into a godsdamn alley with six of your best and brightest ready to pull a wand."
Bran allowed himself a faint, humorless smile. "Oh, Witwer. Did you truly think I wouldn't anticipate Lamar's hounds eventually sniffing about? I've made enough noise over the Seh'Lai case that even the most incompetent could have pieced it together. Frankly, what surprises me is not that you came—but that it took you this long."
The polished veneer Witwer wore faltered slightly, the line of his jaw tightening.
"And tell me," Bran continued, "what precisely did it cost to purchase your loyalty? A promotion? A handful of gold? A promise of favor from a man who sells his soul by the pound? Whatever it was, it seems you settled for remarkably little. You're not an Adjudicator anymore—merely another cur with a badge."
The alley seemed to press closer with the weight of the silence that followed. Then Witwer gave a slow, mocking clap, the sound loud against the close, wet walls.
"Bravo, Mister Ravenclaw," Witwer said, his smirk cold and humorless. "Perhaps you're not all bluster after all. Very well—since the game's up, I'll be frank. We're here at the Director's request. It seems you've been poking about where you're not wanted."
Bran and Laxus shifted ever so slightly—not a flinch, but a silent agreement, the sort of instinct that came from long familiarity with trouble, and both caught the subtle movement at the edges of their vision: wands drawn in steady, practiced hands.
"But," Witwer continued, "out of respect for your past service—and the Director's personal interest— you get one choice. You either join us, keep your badge clean, or you turn it in and leave the Crown City for good. No fights, no noise, just like your grandfather did when he finally learned it wasn't a fight he could win."
Bran tilted his head slightly, his mouth curling into a faint, cold smile. "Tell him—" Bran started, but caught himself, letting a few seconds of loaded silence stretch between them. "No. On second thought, don't bother. You and mange-ridden hounds will be far too busy getting embalmed."
Witwer chuckled darkly, a low, mocking sound as he shook his head. "I was hoping you'd say that."
In a single, fluid motion, he whipped out his wand and unleashed a bolt of searing light straight toward Bran.
Bran moved like a man well-versed in violence, drawing his wand in a motion as clean and precise as an unsheathed blade, the magic in his hand flaring as he swept the incoming spell aside with a sharp, almost disdainful flick.
"Kill them both!" Witwer barked as the men sprang into action, wands raised, spells erupting in a sudden storm.
The air exploded with light—neon bolts flashing through the narrow space, painting the soaked red brick walls in wild, strobing color.
The three men behind them turned their wands on Laxus, but the moment they moved, so did he—faster than the eye could comfortably follow, his long coat slipping off his shoulders behind him in a blur of motion. The very air seemed to crackle with a volatile charge, the ground beneath their feet flickering with the electric sting of his power, the scent of ozone burning sharp in their nostrils.
Laxus was a thunderstorm in human shape.
He closed the distance before they could react, his fists sparking with arcs of wild electricity. His first punch drove into the gut of the nearest man with brutal force, the impact lifting him off his feet, the air leaving his lungs in a sick, wet gasp. Laxus didn't give him a chance to crumple—he hammered a second strike across the man's jaw, sending him sprawling.
Before the others could recover, Laxus turned on them, fists moving with the speed and precision of a seasoned fighter. Every strike landed with a crack of power, tendrils of lightning searing flesh, shocking nerves, dropping his opponents before they could so much as cry out. Blood splattered against the walls, bright and vicious under the flickering lights. He moved between them with brutal economy—one punch to the first, a devastating uppercut to the second, an elbow strike to the third—flowing from one target to the next without pause, a living tempest of muscle and lightning.
Meanwhile, Bran moved with equally sharp precision, his wand dancing through the air as he deflected incoming spells with casual efficiency, the bolts of magic shattering harmlessly against conjured wards or missing him by a hair's breadth as he weaved and pivoted across the slick ground.
Seeing the spells converging, Bran tilted his head skyward and let out a sharp, piercing whistle.
Above, a harsh caw answered, and from the darkness two massive ravens descended like shadows with wings, their black feathers glistening in the rain-damp air.
Bran lifted his wand to his face in a fencer's salute, a slight, elegant motion, and murmured with a quiet finality, "Quoth the raven..." He thrust his wand skyward "Nevermore!"
The ravens folded their wings as they struck the tip of his wand, and in a flare of blackened light, their forms twisted and merged into a single weapon—a sleek, polished longbow, etched with raven motifs, black as obsidian and gleaming in the stray flashes of magic.
The bow spun once in the air before Bran caught it with an effortless sweep of his arm. He pulled back the string, and an ethereal arrow shimmered into existence—sharp, ghostly, and thrumming with power. Without hesitation, he loosed it.
The arrow flew true, piercing one of the attackers squarely in the shoulder, sending the man sprawling backward with a cry of pain, his wand clattering to the ground.
The remaining two, including Witwer, hesitated, wide-eyed, suddenly aware of the colossal mistake they had made.
Bran stood tall, the bow held loosely in one hand, the faint gleam of disdain in his eyes behind the glass of his spectacles. He adjusted them with a single finger.
"You're all fools," Bran said. "Had you known who we truly are, what we are capable of, you would have refused this task before the ink dried on the order." He let the words hang, heavy with contempt, before continuing, "Back in Excalibur, they called Laxus the Thunder Emperor." He drew the bowstring again, another arrow coalescing into existence, the air humming with magic. "And I," he said, "I was known as the Black Prince of Ventus."
Bran's gaze hardened to ice as he levelled his bow once more.
"Now, gentlemen... let us show you why."
****
"Pallas!" Bran called sharply.
He drew the bowstring and unleashed a volley of arrows, each shimmering with spectral light. The ethereal shafts tore through the air with lethal precision, striking their marks one after another—torsos, arms, legs—the sharp crack of impact followed by cries of pain as the attackers stumbled, clutching their wounds.
Witwer ducked behind a rusted metal dumpster, his teeth clenched in frustration as another bolt whistled past his head, close enough to ruffle the hair against his temple.
Bran wasted no time. He surged forward, the bow still in hand, and with a swift, practiced motion, twirled it until he gripped it like a quarterstaff. He swung it in a brutal arc, the polished black wood cracking across the face of the nearest man, drawing a splatter of blood from the crushed bridge of his nose. Without breaking stride, Bran spun on his heel and drove a sharp kick across the jaw of another attacker, sending him reeling sideways into the brick wall with a grunt.
As the third man charged, Bran dropped low, sweeping the bow against the back of his knees with a vicious strike that sent him crashing to the ground. Moving with ruthless efficiency, Bran twisted the bow around the first man's neck, yanked it taut in one swift, brutal pull, then released it—the snapped tension slamming the man's head backward, his skull cracking against the wet pavement with a dull thud.
Bran stepped back, drawing the bow once more. The string thrummed under his fingers, another spectral arrow wisping into existence. He loosed it without hesitation, the arrow flashing through the air and burying itself deep into the forehead of the downed attacker, his body jolting once before slumping lifelessly to the ground, eyes still open in shock.
The last of the men, bloodied but desperate, lunged at Bran, managing to seize him briefly by the throat. Bran's expression remained grim and composed. With a sharp thrust of his weapon, he slammed the butt of the bow into the man's gut, forcing him to double over and release his grip. Without pausing, Bran drew the string once again, another arrow materializing, and fired point-blank into the man's throat.
The man staggered backward, hands clutching at the spectral shaft protruding grotesquely from his neck, gurgling helplessly as blood bubbled from his mouth. His knees buckled a moment later, and he crumpled face-first into the slick ground with a final, rattling breath.
****
Laxus tore through the three men with a ferocity that left no room for hesitation, his fists crackling with electric energy as they smashed into bone and flesh, splitting lips, breaking noses, shattering ribs with every merciless blow. His strikes landed like hammer falls, the sheer power of each hit sending shockwaves up the brick walls and reverberating through the narrow alley.
One of the attackers managed to raise his wand, a desperate spell crackling toward him, but Laxus ducked low, the bolt screaming past his ear, close enough to singe his hair. Without slowing, he seized the man's outstretched arm and drove his knee into the joint with bone-snapping force, bending it backward with a sickening crack that ripped a raw scream from the man's throat. Before his victim could collapse, Laxus grabbed him by the face—fingers digging into skin and bone—and slammed his head down into the wet asphalt with brutal finality.
His palm sparked violently against the man's skull; a flash of lightning illuminated the dark alley as the man's body jerked once, the muffled cry that escaped him cut short by the scent of seared flesh rising thick into the air.
Laxus was already moving, shoving himself to his feet as more spells sizzled through the air toward him. He weaved through the barrage with the ease of a seasoned fighter, slipping past bolts of magic before closing the distance once more, fists slamming into the next man's ribs and stomach with enough force to rattle the very walls.
Blood sprayed from the man's mouth, staining his suit jacket, but Laxus gave him no time to recover—he seized the man by the back of the head, bent him backward in a single, savage motion, and drove his knee into the base of his neck with a sickening crack. The man gagged once, his eyes rolling back before he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings severed.
Only one opponent remained now—a man who stood frozen, wand trembling in his fingers, his wide, panicked eyes locked onto Laxus as if seeing death itself.
Laxus straightened, the charge of his magic crackling around him like a living thing. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other, the only sounds the distant crackle of fading spells and the ragged breathing of dying men.
The last man, driven more by terror than sense, screamed and surged forward, hurling spell after spell with wild desperation. Laxus moved like a specter, sidestepping the blasts with lethal grace, his body a coiled spring ready to snap.
"Hertza." With a guttural snarl, Laxus thrust his hand forward, lightning arcing across his fingers, each one rigid and sharpened like a blade. "Haeon!"
He drove them straight into the man's chest with brutal force, the impact cracking through bone and muscle as the man staggered backward, a thick, wet spray of blood erupting from his mouth. His eyes went wide, dropping in horror to the hand now buried deep in his chest. Laxus could feel the frantic beat of the man's heart thrumming against his palm, wild and desperate.
Without a word, he tightened his grip around it and raised his gaze to meet the man's. A surge of electricity coursed through his arm.
The scream barely formed before the energy detonated inside the man's chest, the explosion sick and wet. Blood burst from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth in a sudden, violent bloom. His wand slipped from limp fingers as his legs buckled, knees striking the ground, and he collapsed forward into the dirt, twitching once before falling utterly still—his body steaming, the final sparks of lightning dancing across scorched flesh.
Laxus stood over the bodies, his hand still slick with blood, the remnants of lightning dancing across his knuckles as he exhaled once, and let the silence of the alley settle over the dead.
****
Bran's gaze narrowed, his expression sharpening like a blade as he levelled the taut bowstring at the last remaining agent, the spectral arrow drawn tight and steady. Across the alley, the man stood with his wand raised, his breathing heavy, his eyes wild, waiting for a chance to strike. Bran, however, showed no haste. His stance was firm, his patience unshakable.
"I always knew this was the path you'd walk, Witwer," Bran said coolly, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the polished bow. "You never believed in the Tower. You never believed in what it stood for. To you, it was never about duty or justice. Only a means to an end. A ladder to line your pockets, to carve out a name for yourself, just like Kaltz and Callahan before you."
A low, bitter chuckle came from behind the twisted metal of the dumpster.
"And I always knew you were delusional," Witwer's voice rang out, dripping with contempt. "Clinging to some fantasy about righteousness, about honor. Do you honestly think anyone in the Tower ever gave a damn about doing right by the people? That's a fairy tale for the fools who don't know any better. Every single one of us is in it for ourselves. The ones who say otherwise, they're either liars, or they're too naive to see it yet."
Bran's eyes narrowed further, the bowstring creaking faintly.
"Tell me," Witwer said, "what do you think the Tower really is? Some grand bastion of justice? Some monument to the better angels of our nature?" He laughed, a short, joyless sound. "It's a meat grinder, Ravenclaw. It chews up bright-eyed little dreamers like you and spits out the husks. And people like me?" His tone grew colder. "We're the ones who keep the handle turning."
"You're wrong," Bran said.
"Am I?" Witwer pressed. "Come off it, Bran. You've got your head buried so deep you can't even admit it to yourself anymore. We all came to the Tower thinking we could fix things, change the world, but sooner or later, you realize it's a fool's errand. And once you see the truth... well, what's so wrong about looking out for number one?"
For a long moment, Bran said nothing. His gaze dipped to the ground, as if weighed by the enormity of it all. Then slowly, purposefully, he raised his head once more, his lime-green eyes burning with something far fiercer than anger.
"You mean just like Burgess," Bran said quietly. "Just like the man who sent thousands to die, not for any noble cause, but for wealth, for power, for his own hollow glory."
He stepped forward, the bow still drawn, the arrow's ethereal tip aimed unflinchingly at the man before him.
"No empire built on the bones of the innocent deserves to stand," Bran said, "and those who prop up such evil, cowards like you, will be buried within its foundations. We'll rebuild the Tower, Witwer, and you and your fellow sycophants?" His gaze hardened to steel. "You'll be the mortar that binds the bricks."
Witwer's jaw tightened, his breath coming sharper now as he rose from behind the dumpster, wand raised.
"You first," he snarled, and fired.
Bran moved the instant he saw the flicker of neon light, darting aside with the smoothness of a man who had danced with death too many times to falter. He closed the distance between himself and the last attacker, grabbing the unfortunate man by the collar and yanking him into the path of the blast.
"Avada Kedavra!" Witwer roared, and the killing curse slammed into the agent's chest, stealing the light from his eyes in an instant. The body went limp in Bran's grip before falling heavily to the ground.
Witwer's eyes widened, a flicker of horror breaking across his face, but Bran was already moving.
In one fluid motion, Bran fired. The spectral arrow slicing through the space between them, striking Witwer's wand hand with deadly precision. Witwer cried out as his wand clattered to the ground, his fingers twisted and useless.
Bran didn't stop. He loosed another arrow, this one burying itself deep into Witwer's thigh, dropping him backwards with a strangled cry of pain. Witwer landed hard against the cold, wet asphalt, gasping, blood already staining the torn fabric of his trousers. Bran approached, the bow drawn once more, the next arrow aimed squarely between Witwer's frantic, wide eyes.
"Well, what are you waiting for, Ravenclaw?" Witwer rasped, spitting a thick strand of blood through his teeth. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, but the smirk twisted onto his face was pure defiance. "Go on then, finish it."
Bran stood over him, the spectral arrow drawn taut against the bowstring, the polished black wood creaking. His lime-green eyes, cold and unreadable, fixed on the man sprawled at his feet.
"This is new," Bran said, almost reflective as he pulled the string tighter. "It's refreshing, in a way — meeting a man ready to meet his end without sobbing, begging, or pissing himself in the dirt. A rare thing these days."
He exhaled, the mist of his breath curling in the chill night air.
"Just one question before I send you to meet whatever gods you still believe in," Bran said, almost courteous, as though offering Witwer a final luxury.
"And what's that?" Witwer asked, a bloody grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, his pride still flickering even at the edge of death.
Bran's gaze sharpened.
"What exactly did Lamar promise you?" he asked.
For a heartbeat, Witwer simply laughed. A dry, broken sound, before his face twisted into something meaner, uglier.
"You really want to know?" he sneered. "Your dear sister's honied c—"
The word had barely left his mouth before Bran loosed the arrow.
The spectral bolt snapped through the air with a sound like a whisper and struck Witwer clean between the eyes and through his skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the ground as his head snapped back against the pavement, his body giving one final shudder before falling still, his smirk frozen in death.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Bran lowered his bow, drawing a sharp breath as the weapon dissolved into a flash of black light, the twin ravens that had formed it bursting free and taking wing, their dark silhouettes vanishing into the night sky. He slipped his wand back into the holster under his coat with a single, smooth motion, the cold finality of the act sealing the moment like a closing tomb.
****
"Now that's what I call a workout," Laxus said as he approached, wiping his bloodied hands clean with a once-white handkerchief before tossing it aside without ceremony. "And now I'm starving again—damn it." His gaze drifted to Witwer's lifeless body sprawled across the asphalt. "Just like old times, huh?"
Bran straightened his coat, adjusting the cuffs and smoothing the front as though they hadn't just torn apart half a squadron in an alleyway. "This wasn't merely an act of intimidation, Laxus," he said coolly. "They were sent to kill us. Which can only mean one thing—we're getting far too close to the truth."
"The old man's getting scared," Laxus said with a crooked smirk. "And I don't give a damn if he throws the whole damned Tower at us. We're gonna rip his walls down, brick by brick, and drag him into the light for the bastard he really is."
"All the more reason why I need to reach Rowena," Bran said, his gaze darkening. "If Lamar's desperate enough to come after me directly, there's no telling what he'd do to her."
"You really think Burgess would stoop that low?" Laxus asked, folding his arms across his chest, his brows knitting together. "I mean, I get he'd have no problem signing our death warrants, but I thought he had a soft spot for your sister."
Bran's mouth pressed into a thin line. "At this point, I wouldn't count on sentiment guiding his actions," he said quietly. "A drowning man will cling to anything to keep himself afloat, even if it means dragging others down with him. It might be a last resort, but if he's cornered... I wouldn't put anything past him."
He trailed off, his sharp gaze catching a glimpse of something tucked into the folds of Witwer's jacket. A small scrap of paper, its edge barely visible. Crouching down, Bran plucked it free and unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the contents with growing intensity.
"Laxus," he said, holding the paper out, "take a look at this."
Laxus leaned in, his eyes widening as he whistled sharply between his teeth. "That's a hell of a lot of Lacrima... and I mean a lot." His expression hardened. "And it's all being shipped to Caerleon?"
He scratched the back of his head, visibly unsettled. "I mean, sure, the place is locked down tighter than a nun's ass, but what the hell would they need that much crystal for?"
"I don't know yet," Bran said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the weight of the discovery settling heavily on his shoulders. "But I know someone who might be able to find out."
His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Laxus.
"First, though," Bran said, "I'm going to need to borrow your little pirate communicator."
Laxus blinked, then placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep offense. "Bran, I'm offended," he said dramatically. "What makes you think I'd have something that's clearly illegal? Pirate communicators are banned, you know. A man like me wouldn't be caught dead with one."
Bran simply gave him a long, unimpressed look, his silence speaking volumes.
Laxus sighed. "Fine. It's in my office. Let's go."
The two men started down the alleyway, stepping over the fallen bodies without a second glance. Bran paused once at the edge, turning his head slightly to cast one final look at the carnage they had left behind. A silent battlefield of broken men and broken allegiances.
Whatever lay ahead, Bran knew one thing with cold certainty.
The endgame had already begun.